A/N: The timeline spans small child Mako to pre-book 3 to post book 4 and all that jazz.
I've never been more personally invested in a piece than this one. I hope you all enjoy it.
i.
Mako jolts awake, his heavily pounding heart anchoring him to the mattress, trapping him in the darkness that floods his sight like a poison freezing the blood in his veins.
This is not new; he has a routine for these nights, but the amount of courage he needs to muster to dart from his bed to his parents' room never lessens. He questions if the security of his parents' bed is worth the battle, worth confronting the creeping blackness lurking in the corners waiting to nip at his bare ankles.
It's a lot for a five year old boy to take on alone.
His small feet pad quietly, quickly, across the wood floor and he pushes open the half-open door in front of him.
"Momma?"
"What is it, love?" Her voice is heavy with sleep. He feels a little guilty for waking them (his dad is always tired from moving earth day in and day out and his mother's face pulls into a smile that means she's worrying but won't say so when she watches his father collapse against the kitchen table, barely a handful of yuan dropped unceremoniously on the scratched wood surface), but he'd feel worse, so much worse, in his own room.
"I had a bad dream." Their bed creaks under their shifting weight and the sheets rustle as they scoot apart, designating a space for him. It's comforting to him already, the audible sign of their presence, even while he lingers in the doorway and can still feel the darkness at his back.
"Come here, Mako." His father's deep voice joins the fray of soft, sleepy sounds already lifting his spirits, and he crosses to them, leaping onto the mattress just before he's too close to the slight gap between the bed and the floor. Just in case.
He crawls across the covers and tucks himself between his mother and father, his mother's arms open and waiting for him. He curls into her embrace, always warm, always carrying the faint scent of spices from their kitchen and smoke from her bending. His father's hand comes to the top of his head, brushing softly through his hair, the expanse of his palm nearly enough to cover his unruly hair entirely.
"Feeling better?" His mother's voice is warm and soft like the ivory blanket she pulls over him when she places a kiss upon his hair.
"A little."
"That's good, love."
Mako softly sighs and, almost as if on cue, his father begins humming the earth kingdom lullaby he saves for nights like this, nights when Mako's woken by night terrors and haunted by hints of things made too real in the shadows of his own room.
He falls asleep then, nestled between his parents, wrapped in the scent of fire and spice, and soothed by the low, smooth notes of the earth.
ii.
There are days when Mako knows he's a firebender.
He wakes up with a heat pulsing under his skin, like the flames he bends with ease are eagerly awaiting their freedom, urging him to move, fight, go. Those are the days he's most alive, most himself, and he loves every second of them. Those are the days he knows he's meant to be a fighter, meant to be a firebender.
Every day is not one of those days, and since returning to Republic City after the Harmonic Convergence, the frequency of "those days" had rapidly declined. On his new-normal mornings, he wakes up exhausted, every push of a spark from his body a drain of his waning energy. He drags unwilling limbs through tried movements, but he functions. He works. He breathes.
He knows the plodding consistency of these lack-luster days has something, maybe everything, to do with Korra. She drew out his last remaining flickering embers, teasing them into a full fire before he'd even known what she was doing. His body craves the feeling of heat pulsing and rushing under his skin, a hunger stirred and satiated by her. He had grown up accustomed to the drawn out days outnumbering the good, knew that he couldn't rely on an inconsistent feeling under his skin to fuel his survival, but now, after indulging for too long, he feels starved by the infrequency of "those days," by what used to be enough for him, and it's infuriating and a little pathetic how difficult it is to return to who he was before her. He's entirely off balance, like the time he took a kick to the head during a triad fight that left his world at a slant, his legs failing to hold him up and his feet refusing to follow his direction despite his internal pleading. All at once, he's feeling too much yet nothing at all in her absence, and he knows it's taking a toll on him in every way possible.
And he knows what will inevitably come next.
The first night, he wakes with his chest tight and breath cut short by a darkness that had snaked its way into his dream, some unseen terror to which he can't assign a form or name, but manages to make him irrationally uncomfortable in the dark surrounding him as he drags himself to the Police Station's kitchen and makes a tea that vaguely reminds him of the one his mother used to drink. It's still not the right one — it's too heavy on ginger, not robust enough, too sweet — but he's found that, after years of nightmares, it's close enough to the one he remembers to remind him of family and safety, enough to stave of the brunt of the nightmares for a little longer.
He's able to fall asleep again that night, but he knows the dreams will get worse and worse, until he's forced to relive his worst memory and other unknown horrors. He gives it a week before he worst one sets in.
The second comes three days after the first, a new record.
He wakes up to a harsh ringing from above, slams his head into the cover of his desk-turned-bed, and can feel the drag already setting in. The cold sweat from his haunted sleep leaves him feeling achy and worn thin. The phone's ring teases him like the once-heard sirens he can't drown out, painfully shrill in his head, and images from a nightmare lived years ago sear his thoughts, linger in his head like the smell of traitor smoke that had clung to his skin when he was eight.
The tea does not help this time.
iii.
To his horror, Jinora catches him fretfully dozing on a tucked-away sofa in the recesses of the airship one afternoon. He wakes to a pair of worried brown eyes and a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder.
"Are you alright? You seemed to be having a nightmare." She pulls away, putting the appropriate amount of space between them once she's assured he's fine.
"I'm fine, thanks. Sorry." He's hardly interacted with the young airbender, but he likes her enough, relates to the responsibility he's seen her shoulder and respects her for handling it well.
She holds his gaze and it's disarming when he realizes she sees through his bravado. She probably can tell he hasn't been sleeping at all for the past week and he's so desperately tired he's almost relieved someone sees it, even if it is the gifted airbender girl he barely knows.
"Here," she holds out the book in her hands, the cover a deep shade of maroon with gold details etched up its spine and over the cover. He takes it, more out of confusion and curiosity than consciousness, and slowly looks between the gently inquisitive pair of eyes observing his behavior and the elegant characters on the cover.
"Whenever I had nightmares, my dad or mom would read to me. When I could finally read on my own, I found it to be just as helpful. This is one of my favorites, about two characters destined to love one another but torn apart by political conflict and their own crippling flaws." He feels her stare break away from watching him to glance at the cover as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She doesn't strike him as a child, her words and actions so precise and refined, but her face still carries the energy of an eleven year old, her eyes large and childlike compared to her demeanor. "The ending is bittersweet, but fitting. I'd be happy to lend it to you as long as you promise to return it to me when you're done."
She smiles and walks past him, quickly but elegantly, before he can respond, his polite refusal to accept the book in his hand dying on his tongue. Part of him wants to flee to his room, avoid being discovered once more in what he thought was a secluded spot, but he knows Bolin or maybe Asami will be there (or worse, Korra) so he shifts in his spot on the velvet recliner, opens the book, and reads. He reads until the clipped characters blur on the page, until he begins to see the headstrong protagonists foggily forming behind his eyelids every time he blinks, until he feels the weight of the book in his hand fall softly against his chest. While the small book fails in its new role as a blanket, he lets the prose lingering in his head (images of balmy mornings and contented smiles, heated moments and heart ache, loss and regret) softly settle over him, leaving him warmer than he's felt in weeks.
He finds Jinora the next morning and asks if she has anything else she'd be willing to lend him. Maybe it's just a trick of the light pouring into the open room of the Airship, but he swears she's glowing when she places another book in his hands.
iv.
He develops a routine, keeps reading whatever book Jinora hands him or he can find, whether it be a historical text on the history of the Fire Nation, or a fictional story about characters he sometimes loves, sometimes hates, even if he only gets the chance to read a few pages each night, the constant uncertainty of their schedule as they run from city to city placing a limit on how much time he has each night.
He's getting better, finally starting to feel heat return to him, leave his limbs with ease, and it couldn't come at a better time, the world spiraling toward chaos around him.
Korra still burns under his skin, but when he finally sees her again after they've been separated, he realizes the hug he's just given her is overly enthusiastic, particularly coming from him. But, he doesn't care if they can't be friends in the conventional sense, if he never quite figures out how to get over her. She's okay, and safe, and right in front of him, and of course he's going to hug her because he loves her, always will love her just like he said.
He thinks, when he feels her arms slowly settle around him, she understands.
v.
He has new nightmares now. Nightmares of poison snaking its way through her veins, of watching her body collapse and the light flicker out of her eyes.
Nightmares in which she doesn't survive.
He finds himself sometimes hoping for the smoke and darkness that had haunted him for most of his life. He's grieved for his parents; waking with the weight of their loss in his chest is a feeling to which he's become uncomfortably conditioned.
Losing her every night only to repeat the process again — his chest tight and pillow wet when he wakes, a sick, unsettled feeling in his stomach that has made him retch upon waking more than a few times — is far, far worse.
vi.
The chill in the Air Temple dormitory settles uncomfortably over his skin compared to the comfort and warmth of his bed, but he continues down the hall, hoping he won't disturb any of the residents slumbering on the other side of each door. He should just go back to his room—try to get a good night of rest after the long day of discussions with the others and the recently returned Avatar—but he knows any attempt at sleep will be futile, discomfort scratching under this skin.
Three years.
Three years had elapsed, left him wondering about her whereabouts, piecing together what he could from snippets of conversation he'd overhear between Tenzin and Beifong or awkwardly asked questions to either party, who'd raise an eyebrow at his request before supplying the answer. He didn't really care about the glances, though; he'd trade his pride for knowing that she hadn't left the Water tribe for months or that she had cut her hair any day.
Now, after three years, she was back. Seemingly not by choice, but the threat Kuvira had begun to pose was something that Korra, as the Avatar, couldn't escape, and had ushered in this reunion, of sorts, with everyone once again gathered at the Air Temple.
They were…different, when together. Something was still there, an understanding that he cared, and so did she, or something, but he couldn't quite place what 'it' was. She had changed in the three years apart and so had he, but she was back, at that was something, at least.
His eyes snap up at the sound of water splashing hard against the ground and he realizes he's more than halfway down the winding stairs connecting the shore to the Air Temple above. He steals a glance at the glimmering city across the water, drawn to the warm glow of the kaleidoscope of lights springing from the ever-bustling streets and buildings, before realizing he isn't alone.
Her eyes are closed as she moves the water slowly and effortlessly in never-ceasing loops around her. She steps in a patterned form, repeating the same paces and surprisingly graceful lunges, as her bobbed hair hangs lightly, falling in wisps around her. When he catches a second glimpse of her face, his chest tightens and his body urges him to turn around, just leave her in this moment, but he stays rooted on the cold, stone step, the spattering water and rustling leaves filling the otherwise tranquil night. He wonders if she's aware of his presence when, almost as if in response, her eyes open and meet his before drifting away as she continues to move within the water. He notices a slight falter in her next step in the pattern and a heat rushes to his face as he tries to piece together a convincing excuse as to why he hasn't said anything or just plain left, but every reason rings false in his head and he walks down the remaining stairs instead, closing the distance between them.
When only a few feet separate him from her, he sits with his elbows perched upon his knees and watches the water lap at the shore and the glistening city shift its shape on the bay's pristine surface. He takes her silence as an invitation of sorts and steals glances at her as she continues to ignore his presence, but as he sits watching the city—his unforgiving, calloused, home—before he falls back on the soft ground behind him.
"What are you doing here?" Her voice practically strikes him, sending a jolt of energy through him, urging him to respond.
"Couldn't sleep. You?"
She doesn't respond immediately and he turns his head, the sand shifting and gritting beneath him, as if watching her will somehow encourage her to answer. He wants to prompt her but the way her eyebrows are drawn together—her eyes focused on some invisible spot—stops him. Her eyes flick over to his and dart away almost instantaneously, as if she wasn't expecting his gaze to be ready to meet her own, before sighing and leading the stream of water back to the shore with a gentle plop.
She sits down where she's standing, with her forearms resting upon her knees. Her chin placed on her arms, she stares out at her invisible spot once again.
"I'm having nightmares. I had a few after dealing with Amon and Unalaq, but these are…different. Worse." She sighs and slowly traces something in the sand beside her, seconds passing, and he sits up in the wake of her silence. Even if he doesn't know this new Korra or what exists between them anymore, he understands this. He knows all too well what nightmares that haunt can do to a person.
"And they won't go away?" She raises her eyes to him at that, as a sad, small, smile pulls at the corner of her lips.
"Yeah." He lets her response hang in the air between them, hesitant to answer.
"Waterbending's supposed to be healing. Katara taught me all these therapeutic patterns while I was recovering, which were helpful, physically. They haven't really helped with the nightmares, but I thought that if I came down to the ocean and just…tried again here, it might stop them. Or at least maybe lessen them. I don't know."
The last sentence comes out heavy with exasperation and her hand stills, no longer etching the sand beside her. She clears her throat suddenly, as if she's grown uncomfortable with the vulnerability of moment. He flicks his gaze away from her, staring without focus at the blurred city lights mixing with the shimmer of the ocean, because he knows exactly how it feels to be exposed, but also remembers the relief that came with being caught by a precocious airbender years ago, of knowing he wasn't alone.
"Sometimes reading helps."
She stays quiet at his words and he's not sure if he should continue, but something pushes him onward. She needs to know. He needs her to know that she isn't alone.
"Or finding stuff that reminds you of home. Whatever it is that makes you feel safe, I guess." Her own gaze stays focused on the pattern she's drawn in the sand, and he's thankful for that, thankful for the strange sense of privacy it gives him, thankful to her for letting him speak without being analyzed.
He lingers with her in silence for a moment more before pushing himself to stand, listening to her wordless request for space.
"I'm going to head in. Night, Korra." He brushes the sand from his pants before stealing another glance at Korra and the elemental symbols she's traced in the sand beside her before starting for the stairs.
"Mako?" He turns and catches her gaze, caught off guard by the way it still makes him feel light and heavy all at once, a flicker of warm things he'd told himself to let go of every time she crossed his mind, proof that he never did.
"Thanks for the suggestions." She stands, and it almost looks like she's going to begin bending again, hands poised to draw the water to her once more, before she lets her hands fall to her side and starts for the stairs, closing the gap between them.
"Anytime. I hope something helps." The walk up the stairs is quiet and when they part ways to return to their respective rooms, it's with nothing more than a whispered "night."
He doesn't know what they are anymore.
But it's something.
v.
The crinkling sound of static weasels its way into his ears, drawing him out of sleep. He blearily focuses on the lone window in his room, just offering him a glimpse of the night in which his consciousness is intruding, the padding of quiet, tired feet on the pavement below and the rain-heavy air sneaking into his apartment, undisturbed by his rousing.
His vision slowly adjusts to the dark and he pushes himself onto his elbows, staring at the radio atop his desk and the figure perched atop his worn desk chair. Her slim fingers twist the fat knob on his clunky machine, clipped cuts of stations overlooked, seeking out a particular broadcast. Only when she finds it and she settles back into his chair, curls further into herself, does he speak.
"Couldn't sleep?"
"Not exactly." The tired bite to her voice is as vulnerable as it is defensive, a tone he has similarly laced through his voice in response to questions filled with concern too many times to count. When she glances at him momentarily, he knows that type of look, feels the lingering anxiety and fear slowly ebbing into an exhaustion sleep won't remedy. It's oddly jarring for him to be on the other side of it, watching her crystal blue eyes flick away from his, her cold and unflinching gaze the remnants of a nightmare.
She stays planted in his chair, partially turned away from him, knees tucked into her chest. Slowly spinning little swirls of air between her fingers from her arm's folded place upon her knees, she switches suddenly to a small flame, illuminating the room in a flickering, warm light. An advertisement for Kwong's Cuisine and a catchy little jingle bleats out in their pause.
"Do you want to talk about it?" The late-night reporter begins a story on a new pro bending team, outlining each player and their stats, their victories and losses. A minute more of aimless updates on each team followed by discount sales at the local Satomobile dealership crackle through the room; Mako sits up, letting the sheet pool at his hips.
"Korra?"
This is her coping mechanism, he's realized. He reads for distraction, she listens for confirmation: no faceless threats, no panicked interruptions, no chaos at their door. She flips the radio off with a sigh, a weary smile in place when she finally turns to hold his gaze.
"Sorry I woke you." He eyes her carefully, gauging how much he thinks he should push the issue, if at all. He suspects that he'll never quite figure out what to make of moments like these with her, moments when brash, open Korra closes something of herself off from him. They're fairly new to this whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing again, a fresh start after years of distance, both by land and heart, and he doesn't know how exactly what memories creep into her dreams at night (he suspects they're mixed memories of steel boxes and isolation, of an emptiness filled only with air, of poison and paralysis, other terrors she's collected over the years), but he's here for her. He thinks she knows that. At least, he hopes she does.
"Do you want tea?" He runs his hand through his hair, watching the ice melt from her gaze as the corner of her mouth quirks upward.
"Sure. Thanks." He climbs out of bed and crosses to her spot in his chair before she can stand, reaching for her hand to pull her up, watching as her form gently uncurls when her feet touch the floor. Hands intertwined, they make their way to the kitchen.
She leans against the counter as he moves about, watching his movements. He wonders if she'll dismiss the fluidity of this routine to the simple fact that this is his kitchen or if she can see the intention and pattern behind it.
Kettle next to the sink. Tin of tea leaves to the right of the stove. Mug left out on the counter. Just in case.
He's never explicitly told her about the nightmares, what they were or what they became, and she hasn't stayed over at his place enough to witness one yet. He's lucked out so far, slept beside her (because of her) with ease, and he hopes the frequency of her visits will continue to increase with how happy they both are, have been, for the first time in a long time.
But he knows that one night she'll experience waking up next him in the midst of a nightmare made of swirling smoke and familiar forms scarred almost unrecognizable by flames or one in which she features, a loss he knows will cause him to pull her tightly against his chest upon waking. She'll watch him make tea, a flavor he'd sought for years while hoping to find one similar to the tea he remembers as his mother's favorite. She'll watch him move with the same number of steps, the same simplified motions, as the night slinks toward morning.
He places the kettle on the stove, preferring to boil his water without bending tonight, and for a moment, they remain apart, mirrored statues next to one another (loosely bent elbows, hands grasping the lip of the counter, watching the kettle in silence) in his small kitchen, before he breaks, quietly.
"I love you."
She smiles tiredly, close lipped, as her hands gently pull her hair back into what would be a ponytail if it were as long as it once was before letting it slip from her fingers. "I love you too."
He folds into her, fluid like a door swinging on its hinge, and holds her to his chest, runs his hands up and down the soft, blue fabric covering her back while her own arms come to wrap around him. His routine is seamless: he counts the seconds in his head, pulls away when he know the water to be just the right temperature, preps the mugs, and allows the tea to steep. She settles onto the sofa while they wait, the warm scent of cinnamon, cardamom, and just the right amount of ginger slowly spreading through the room.
"It's strong." He says, a little self-conscious, as he glances over at her form on the old sofa before taking their mugs in hand and crossing to sit beside her. She lifts her legs up from their stretched position across the cushions, waiting for him to sit so she can plop them down over his lap.
"That's alright, I like strong teas. It smells nice anyways." She lifts the mug to her lips, blowing softly on the steam rising from the glass before taking a sip. He feels strangely anxious as he waits for her response, wanting her approval, hoping she likes it. Her eyes show the faintest trace of a spark when she swallows. "It's spicy. It's really good."
"I'm glad you like it." He glances away from her face and down to his own cup, sipping the slightly too hot liquid, enjoying the warmth as it slides down his throat, spreads through his chest. He thinks of quiet, misty mornings, of waking in the expanse of his parents' half-empty bed, his father gone for the day at the break of dawn, and looking up from his pillow to his mother's upright form. He remembers the sheets draped over her bent knees and her long, ebony hair loose and smooth over her shoulders; he remembers a tattered book with a worn cover and words too big for him to understand in one hand and a cup of cinnamon tea in the other. He thinks of her smile, her gentle voice asking "did you sleep better, love?" or "did you have sweet dreams?" and nodding his response against a fluffy pillow still clinging to his warmth.
He switches his cup from one hand to the other, setting his warm hand on the firm leg over his lap, dragging it up and down soft skin in lazy motions. Korra takes another sip and smiles, still tired and slightly unsettled, but sweetly, lovingly. He smiles back.